Although I am old,
 
the river is much older—
 
sing this song, north wind!

 
 
 

With each song you sing
 
you teach me thanksgiving’s way,
 
little brown sparrow.

A white-crowned sparrow,

while passing through my garden,

leaves its song behind.

 
 
 

Though your heads are bowed,
 
won’t you sing me one last song,
 
fading sunflowers?

 
 

Battered by the wind,
 
the sunflowers still manage
 
to sing blooming songs.

 
 

Little brown sparrow,
 
sing a cactus-blossom song
 
to ease my sorrow!

 
 

Little brown sparrow,
 
do you know a summer song
 
to ease my sorrow?

 
 

white bowl, purple plums,
 
song sparrow at my window—
 
kitchen pilgrimage

 
 

Little brown sparrow,
 
I hope yours is the first song
 
on the first of June.

 
 

With pen and paper
 
a few days after Easter,
 
I wait for a song.